


Sweet singing in the choir

by Hypatia_66



Series: Illya in Cambridge [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cambridge, Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 22:49:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17170934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya's first Christmas in Cambridge





	Sweet singing in the choir

The more powerful Cambridge colleges having rejected the vulgarity, noise and smell of rail travel, Cambridge station had been established as far from the University as possible, a century ago. It was a long way to carry a heavy case full of books. After Kiev and Paris, this famous university town seemed small and unimpressive, even a little mean. Kuryakin was quite surprised.

He was obliged to ask the way when he met the tangle of narrow streets in the centre, but when King’s Parade opened out in front of him, he stopped. The golden limestone façade of King’s College, its gatehouse and the famous chapel were set off by the bright green grass and the great tree in front, but clashed badly with the greyish-white Portland stone of the Senate House and the Old Schools.

He gave his name at the Porter’s Lodge under the great gate and one of the Head Porter’s bowler-hatted underlings was delegated to lead him to the rooms he had been allocated. Stepping out into Front Court for the first time, he was struck again by the discordant use of Portland stone in another majestic building ahead of him, in a college constructed mainly of the golden stone.

At the entrance to a staircase, he was startled to find his own name already listed on a board. At the top of the stairs, the porter unlocked the door to a room that also had his name painted on it. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, sir,” he said, and handing him the keys, touched his hat. Seeing his flush of surprise, he took pity on the boy – seems lost, he’s just a lad, even if he _is_ a Red; won't know the ropes – and explained about which door to shut when you didn’t want to be disturbed, and where to find a bathroom, and offered to show him round later when he was ready.

Unprepared for being saluted and so benevolently addressed, Kuryakin could only stammer his thanks. “You are very kind,” he said and shook hands. The porter touched his hat again and left him.

There were two rooms: a study and bedroom. The study was furnished with a desk and chair, two easy(-ish) chairs either side of a fireplace and a rug. In the bedroom there was a narrow bed, a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers and chair. All this space, just for him.

His clothing was meagre and he had nothing but an overcoat to hang in the wardrobe. He’d been told where to buy a second-hand academic gown, and that he would have to wear evening dress for formal dinners. As he couldn’t afford either, he wasn’t going to be able to eat in college for a while.

The porter had left the outer door open, so he jumped when there was a tap on the inner one.

“You must be Kuryakin,” said a fellow occupant of the staircase, entering and holding out his hand. “I’m Cowper, I’m in the rooms opposite. Have you just arrived? Come and have some tea.”

To sit companionably drinking tea beside a warm fire was pleasant. Cowper leaned forward and said, “I heard you were from the USSR. Is that true? What will you be doing in Cambridge?”

His garrulous neighbour seemed content to chatter away without expecting more than a nod of agreement and a minimum of information, so Kuryakin relaxed a little and felt able to interject a question of his own.

“A gown? Oh, for now, just borrow one from someone when you need one… Formal dinner? Well, we might find someone your size to borrow a suit from. Don’t worry about it.”

So, that was a relief. He would be able to eat in college. A good solid meal was something to look forward to. He smiled and accepted another toasted crumpet.

*************

Towards the end of that term, Cowper introduced his exotic Soviet neighbour (whom he was rather proud of) to one of the more famous elements of the King’s College year – the annual Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. It naturally meant very little to Kuryakin, who had so far not set foot in the chapel.

“Come on, old man,” said Cowper, “I’ll show you. The choir will be practising – you’ll see.”

Kuryakin looked up at the chapel's remarkable fan vaulting and felt cold air dropping from the tall stained-glass windows. “It’s like a highly decorated barn, really,” he said.

Cowper laughed. “Absolutely right, but don’t let anyone else hear you say that – King’s chapel is sacrosanct in more ways than one.”

“What are those?” said his companion, pointing at the heraldic devices so liberally decorating the nave walls.

“Monumental Tudor boastfulness – they put their vulgar mark on everything. The college and chapel were started by a Plantagenet king, but finished by Tudor ones in the 16th century.”

“They were very … full of themselves? Is that what you say?”

“Correct. Full of themselves, and quite unpleasant – but then, I’ve always preferred the Plantagenets. Come at look at the Rubens altarpiece.”

Cowper led Kuryakin to the rood screen dividing the chapel, where they stopped – the choir members were in place, about to start their practice.

The pure sound of a boy’s treble suddenly rose into the high vaulting and they stood silent, listening. Cowper watched his friend curiously. Kuryakin was motionless, unexpectedly transfixed by the boy’s voice.

The carol came to an end and Kuryakin, rather embarrassed, blinked to clear his vision. “They don’t sing like that where I come from, nor in Paris,” he said.

“Famous Anglican choral tradition. Best in the world. Been doing it like that for centuries.”

“When is the carol service? Could we go to it?”

“I’ll see if I can get tickets. Good way to celebrate your first Christmas in Cambridge. By the way, have you got anywhere to go at Christmas?”

“No. Why?”

“Come home with me. My mother cooks a wonderful Christmas dinner.”

Kuryakin looked at him. “Won’t she mind?”

“She’d love it. Do come!”

“If you’re sure… Thank you, I’d like to.”

**********************

**Author's Note:**

> LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: solid, green
> 
> In the 1950s, young Englishmen addressed even quite close friends by their surnames.


End file.
